


Down On The Rug

by regulsh



Category: Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:14:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22016965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regulsh/pseuds/regulsh
Summary: Richard corrals Taron, puts him in a nice tidy pen in his mind. More important to focus on the work.
Relationships: Taron Egerton/Richard Madden
Comments: 23
Kudos: 64





	Down On The Rug

**Author's Note:**

> more specific content notes at the bottom. title from [would you fight for my love?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MQOnbp_DspY)

“Have you ever been in a relationship like that?”

Taron is housing chips across from him. Richard twists his pint glass on the beer mat. This is new; this is fine; he doesn’t mind the question. They're figuring out what this is. “How d’you mean.”

“Like.” Taron does a diving motion with his hand, whistles along with it. “Something that went south. I sure as shit have.”

Richard’s mind goes blank. Curls a hand against his mouth before speaking. Slowly says through it, “There’s been times... where... mistakes were made. But not with ill intentions. I think everyone just tries to do the best they can and treat everyone as fairly as possible. Ideally.”

Taron takes a drink. Says, mild, “Yeah.” 

Makes a show of looking over his shoulders comically.

“What.”

“Are they here, or...?” Taron faces him again; Richard feels his skin prickle under the weight of the look Taron levels at him. “You don’t have to do that, so you know.”

Richard feels caught out. “What.”

“Like, the pat answer. I dunno,” Taron sucks ketchup off his fingers. “If we’re gonna be in this we should know each other a little, yeah? I won't judge you. You can be honest. Or whatever,” waves his hand, “y’don’t have to have an answer.” 

Neither is an option, really, Richard thinks. It sounds so uncomplicated, coming from him.

Taron gives him a grin, lets him off the hook. “Pass the salt?”

Richard does. Steals a chip off his plate and Taron makes an indignant noise. Considers how to handle it from here. 

-

Richard corrals Taron, puts him in a nice tidy pen in his mind. More important to focus on the work. Is it his fault if Taron has figured out how to work the latch, keeps breaking free in the most annoying ways.

-

Taron calls Richard by stupid nicknames. Bellows _oh you prince,_ greets him with a _hello babydoll,_ whistles _studly man_. Richard laughs openly, lets it be a one sided game, never can think of anything to call him back that feels right.

-

They’re in each other’s orbit most days. Little stuff crops up, known preferences and patterns of behavior between them.

Few are the times that Richard is not paying attention to Taron. Part obligation, part— well, part—

-

Taron shimmies outside in one of his more elaborate outfits one day and he looks _fantastic_. Richard can’t fuck up his makeup or costume or hairpieces, hands stalling, doesn’t know where to touch him for their customary embrace but _has_ to let him know how incredible it is. Richard tells him as much, squeezes his hand and kisses the shell of his ear and he sees Taron blush. 

He steps back, lets his hand swing at his side. Taron grabs his wrist back before it finishes its journey and says _thank you_ , pleased.

-

Richard knows there’s a fair amount of importance attached to this scene, _and_ it’s Taron’s first time doing such a thing, _and_ he’s straight, the poor thing. It niggles in the back of his mind, a metronome, _straight straight straight_. Richard just has his normal discomfort around it. They don’t chat more than they need to in advance, both deciding to buck up and get on with it. It’s been well planned, logistics discussed. (Taron had nodded sagely and said _ah, ‘tis better to give than to receive_ in a faint crusty accent and it sent him into a laughing fit for a good few minutes.)

That was another day, though. Today it’s just the two of them and about ten other people in a cool room. Flat light washing out everything, standing face to face, waiting to touch each other. Utterly ridiculous.

Taron goes at him a little frantic the very first take and Dex says _brilliant. love it. next time, let’s—_ and waxes poetic while Taron listens, nods intently.

Taron’s a little slower, more unsure the next take, but that also means there’s less to hide behind. Richard can feel the slightest hesitation in Taron’s hands and he knows it will read.

Dex calls cut again and Richard lets Taron go away. When he comes back, he plants two hands on the tops of his shoulders.

“Look at me,” he says, and Taron goes to speak, cuts his eyes to the side, the beginning of a curl at his mouth. He shushes him, “No, no, look at me.” Squeezes down gently, ballast over his shoulders. He releases an entire breath from his lungs, which Taron picks up with a smooth deep inhale. 

“You’re good.” Richard gives him a small reassuring smile and it’s like Christmas day, the way his face breaks open gently around a smile. Dex calls action again and they just go from there. Richard slides his hands up to his neck and kisses him. It’s simpler now, the slide of Taron’s lips and the tug of his hands makes sense, feels good even, until he decides to stop fucking thinking about it and just do his job.

-

It’s always weird trying to see how much to divulge of himself, in press or on jobs or whatever the fuck. He’s thrilled to chat and make friends but always keeps it light, pleasant. People are usually just as satisfied with that.

It’s mostly fear, just an odd hunted feeling. Terribly afraid of being seen or scrutinized, and moreover, found wanting. In any case; what a piss poor profession he’s chosen.

-

Taron passes by him one day and he looks up for just a second. Clocks the insane amount of skin exposed and mutters as he goes, “Incredible.”

Taron stops. “Checking out the goods, are you?” He twists and preens briefly, clearly thrilled, playing it up for him.

“Hard not to.”

Richard instantly bites his tongue. He just meant, like, there is so much on display, not like— he couldn’t help himself—

Taron is already blowing him a kiss, and fuck it all—

“How much for a private show?”

“More than your life, gorgeous.”

“You’re going cheap, then. I’m not worth very much.”

“Not true. You’re worth your weight in gold.” Taron wraps an arm around him and presses a kiss to the side of his head. 

“You’d get the friends and family discount, anyway.” Taron swans off, leaving Richard in his wake, more confused than when he came.

_-_

They get a night off and the crew decides to go out and Richard joins happily before hearing Taron say mournfully, “Nah, I’m going to stay back.” He looks truly upset but there’s a deep set weariness in his face. Richard tells him _I think that’s a good idea,_ sends him off with a clap on the shoulder _._

They drink and are merry and someone tells an anecdote that makes Richard nearly snort beer out of his nose. He finishes his drink, steps away and texts it to Taron, something funny for him to wake up to in the morning. He’s barely sent it off before he gets back _lol_ and four crying face emojis. 

Still up, then. Immediately following that:

_let me know when you’re back_

Nice of him. He sends back a thumbs up, pockets his phone. One more round, he thinks. 

Richard finally gets back to his room, only once tripping over the shoes he left at the door, _dammit._ Texts to Taron _back safe and sound mum_. He strips off his jacket and is in the middle of fiddling with the thermostat, squinting, when he hears a couple of quick raps, shave and a haircut. He plods to the door, out of time. Opens it to Taron, whose eyes tick over him with a smile as he breezes past him in the entryway.

“Had to give you back your phone charger,” Taron says, waggling it in his hand. He’s in loose jeans and a shirt, freshly showered and careless as he goes over to his desk.

Richard squints at his back. “Now?” He lingers in the doorway, flat footed, fingertips pressing against the wall. He was hoping to ride his buzz straight into the pillow. Wasn’t prepared to have to engage with people any more; as it is, he feels too loose. Not himself.

“Yeah. Just couldn’t sleep.” Taron throws the charger on his desk and pulls out his own phone, intent on it as he falls down onto the foot of Richard’s bed. He lays there, half hanging off the edge. They have a habit of invading each other’s space, so this is. Typical. Richard watches his back twist, the curve of his waist up to his wide shoulders, as he settles. Taron plucks at the duvet.

“Ugh, so comfortable.”

“Great. Happy you are.” Richard’s not quite able to mask his tone.

Taron picks his head up to look at him. He hopes his face is doing something reasonable, doesn’t want to be rude.

“Should probably pack it in though,” Taron says, purposefully light. “Long day.”

Taron pops up as easily as he had flopped down, goes to move past Richard to the door to leave. Pauses to face him and Richard’s eyes, bleary, avoid his. “You okay?”

The day and the night out have tapped him, unable to entertain company right now. Unable to properly navigate a late night conversation with Taron. He feels grimy under his clothes, tongue stuck in his mouth.

“I just— I feel a bit— just shattered, mate.” He laughs, a nervous thing.

Taron edges closer to the door, looks down. “No, sure, sure. I just wanted to see you. Say g’night.”

“No, of course.” It’s automatic, to curl a hand around his bicep, to soothe long along the back of Taron’s arm.

He lifts his head. Looks at Richard. 

Steps closer to him in the narrow hallway.

“Taron.” Richard gently moves his head back and rubs a hand over his chin. His other hand is still on his arm.

“Can I,” Taron murmurs. His eyelids dip. Richard can see a drip of water collected in the hair over his ear.

Richard’s mouth falls open and what comes out is, “yes,” helpless, “but you— but it’s—"

Taron regards him in his stumbling, crooks his head towards him, calm.

“I want to.” Doesn’t finish, maybe never intended to. Just leans closer, settles his hands featherlight on Richard’s hips. He feels one of Taron’s fingers slide into a belt loop, the rest nudging at his hip where his shirt is rucked up above his jeans. Taron’s fingers trace over him, wanting him to feel it. Every touch feels like ten; it hits him at once how tiltingly tipsy he still is. He’s at risk of doing something idiotic, like looking at him, or touching him.

Taron sends a curious nose up under his jaw, inhaling hard. Tilts his hips, rubs his groin against his, the catch of their buttons and seams more than anything else. 

“Is it very possible for you to kiss me now,” Richard manages to ask. He feels his heartbeat slow impossibly, how his face has softened under the quiet attention, his eyes and mouth drawing down heavy. It would be so welcome.

“It’s very possible,” Taron murmurs against his neck before he lifts his head. Richard is flushed all over. All he can think is that his breath must be awful, booze-rank while Taron is immaculately combed, so lucid and clean, a fresh beautiful thing inches from him. Beautiful.

Taron’s eyes are dark, sea deep, as he stares at him just before he leaves. The entire warm weight of his body so close and disappearing at once, the door catching with a pneumatic hiss and clicking shut quiet behind him, so careful not to disturb.

Richard sags against the wall. He will be dead before the year is out, he’s sure of it. 

He takes a too-hot shower and does not touch himself and yanks on boxers and does not touch himself and burrows in bed until a fruitless hour of trying to sleep means he shoves a hand down and thinks about anonymous porn and certainly, certainly not clean warm skin under his hands.

-

Richard has always appreciated the open loose freedom of a night out. 

Always, maybe masochistically, equally appreciated the slow-moving clarity of a hangover the next day. Felt right. Corrective.

-

Nothing’s changed. Richard is typically on his guard, and is only doubly so now. It’s doing him in, the push-pull of it. The one person he wants to see, once he sees him, lifts the hair on the back of his neck.

A door has been opened, but nobody’s moved through it.

Doesn’t know what to do. Decides to ignore it.

-

He’s always been stubborn. Keeps pretending things are just normal, skates along the ice-thin surface of delusion until movie night, them sprawled on a bed, turns into Taron crawling into his lap and kissing him, and things are all of a sudden not normal, even as his blood heats up, even as his hands press against the firm, enticing bulk of Taron's shoulders.

Richard can't reconcile his conception of Taron with this person who looks at him with intent, cradles his face and mutters _handsome_ before nipping at his lips, kissing him with a grin. He speaks in between presses of Taron's mouth.

“I can’t— I don’t want you to— what are you—”

Richard stops, yanks Taron away from his mouth, pants heavily. “Taron. What are you doing.”

“Fuck, what I’ve wanted to do.” His tongue darts out to wet his lips; Richard’s eyes follow the pink flash of it. “C’mon, d’you—" He sits back on his heels. “Do you?”

His brain seizes. “You’ll regret this. I won’t— I don’t— whatever this is for you—"

“It’s not for me, I’m not—” Exasperated. “Fuck, Rich.” Taron’s hands are clenching and unclenching over him.

He can’t deal with it, wants to reject it out of hand, wants to reject it because—

“You’ll get one off with a guy, tick that off your list—”

“Can you fucking stop it,” Taron bites. He shifts, his eyes hard. “Tell me to go and I’ll go.”

Richard breathes. His hands are weak and still where they lay. One finger is just touching Taron's denim-clad knee; he moves the tip of it minutely.

Taron leans over him again, plants two careful hands into the mattress around his torso. Hovering. “Tell me to go.”

Taron presses one painful kiss onto his mouth, then moves to shift off the bed. 

Richard grabs him.

-

Taron is clumsy and Richard is wrenched with a tension he’s not able to shake. They end up jerking each other off and Taron blows him for a couple minutes which is nice but not what he needs, exactly. Richard’s always been skilled at making it work, though. Locking down whatever inconvenient feelings are circling his brain to focus on the task at hand. Taron kisses him, touches him, says _let me, let me_ — and Richard does, of course he does. He’d do anything for him. Makes sure to fist the head of Taron’s cock ruthlessly and kiss him as he comes, tries to make it good for him.

Taron doesn’t seem to know either way, is so happy with it. Mashes his face into the pillow, traces a hand over his side, humming. 

He stays. He lets him stay. Richard gets fevered sour snatches of sleep, jolting awake at the strange body in his bed.

-

The next morning; barely morning, the thin grey light just beginning to think about creeping into the room. An acceptable amount of time has passed, he supposes. Enough to save face, to not be more unkind than he desperately wants to avoid. Enough that Taron is starting to stir near him, and Richard opens his mouth:

“You should go.”

Taron rolls, awake. Stretches wide, fuzzy and bed-warmed. “Mm, yeah?”

“You should go.” He sits up, away from him, steel in his voice.

It’s still dark in the room. Taron is silent for a long moment. 

Then not, low and plain at his back. “Richard.”

He’s had a lot of failed fucks, stupid moves in his day. None that he regrets as much as this.

“I fucking said—" The heels of his hands pressed to his eyes.

The mattress groans behind him. Stillness, nothing for an age, until he feels his weight leave the bed. 

There are bumps, and clatters, and then he can half-see a brightness flood behind him; a phone flashlight, swinging wildly around, and his heart does a million stupid things in his chest, he wants to help him, he wants—

He hears his feet pad on the floor, the muffled gathering of items, the door closing so quiet again.

-

Taron gets to yell at him later. He gets to lock himself away behind a mask of indifference. It suits him just fine. They can do their jobs. 

Just. Fine.

-

And that’s _fine_ , the conflict, having it out. It’s the politeness, the cold avoidance in between that hurts like a physical ache. Richard has seen a flush rise to his face, seen him soft and lost to pleasure, so open and trusting of him. (Which was a mistake, it can't, they _shouldn't_ —)

It’s been a week, and as much as it is a relief to see him in the light of day, day after day, the forced unfamiliarity is wearing him down.

He’s about to step on the balcony for a smoke, add to the butts littering the concrete, when he hears a slow knock at his door. He opens it, already knowing. 

Taron’s eyes are deep set in his face, he looks haunted. Hands shoved in his pockets. Richard's sure he doesn’t look much better.

“Come in.”

Taron steps past him and stands adrift in the middle of the room. Chews his lip and plunks down in a chair on the opposite side of the room. Richard watches him, then closes the door. Leans against it, regarding him.

“So.” Taron coughs.

The silence is so loud. Richard starts in, “Thought you—”

“I’m sorry. I’m— I’m sorry,” Taron croaks in a rush and oh fuck, Richard can see, his eyes are wet. “S’pose that you even let me in the door means something.” Rubs his knee. “Can’t— can’t fucking bear to have fucked this up. I—” Taron shrinks into the chair even smaller, can’t look at Richard, like a frightened animal. “I care about you, so much. And I just had to acknowledge that I apparently fundamentally, outrageously fucked things up, and I am. So sorry. For whatever it’s worth.”

Richard—can’t move. _He’s_ apologizing. He did nothing wrong. It was Richard who fucked up, Richard who wasn’t careful enough.

“I—" Taron gives one hard sniff, rearranges his face. “Whatever you want, however you want. We’ll finish it out.” He nods once, mostly to himself, and levers himself up from the chair. 

He looks to the door, finally, to where Richard is. It’s clear he doesn’t want to move to leave with him in the way, doesn’t want to approach him at all. 

Richard is struck dumb against the door, arms crossed. Taron sways where he stands, tortured. The world’s worst standoff, no weapons between them.

Richard finally can’t take any more of it, uncrosses his arms and walks toward him. Taron flinches a bit when he starts, still spooked. Richard takes up his hands, which are loose and bloodless in his. This version of Taron, scared of his own shadow, he can’t handle. It’s his fault.

“I care about you, too,” Richard says, voice hoarse like he hasn’t spoken in a thousand years. He's been pushing him away for so long, that— “I don’t know what to do with you.”

“You don’t have to do anything with me.” Taron nervously shakes his hands free from Richard’s.

Richard stares at him. The silence drags.

Taron blinks, catches a breath. Looks at him with sudden understanding. “But you want to.”

Richard stares at him.

“You do. I want— Richard. I want." Taron exhales, his head bowing. His hands spread. "You’re the best thing in my life.”

He won’t let himself, he won’t he won’t he won’t. Taron’s face is damp and smooth against his. 

He means to go in to soothe him, to slowly reconnect what’s been broken between them, but Richard’s mouth touches his, Taron’s wet mouth, and it’s like a circuit completes. It sparks alive in Richard, one hand scrabbling around the back of Taron's head and the other tight around his hip, his lower back, crushing Taron against himself.

Taron’s mouth opens whining against his, gasping when Richard maneuvers them to the floor. Taron goes willingly, knees buckling like he’s being dismantled, folded up under Richard on the floor. Richard bites at him, mouth open, tries to surround him entirely, kissing him crazed where’s he’s tangled around him and hiccuping. 

And Richard can feel, he grinds down as he wrenches Taron’s hands up and away and presses them onto the rough carpet, that he’s growing hard beneath him. The solid weight of him undulating under him; he’s hard too, ferocious as he pins his legs down in such a way that he can’t move. Richard ruts down onto him. Takes a moment to tear his mouth from his and bury his face into his neck, the warm base smell of him, the rasp of his stubble under his lips. Taron’s mouth, free now, looses all his muffled whines and pleas into the air, only making Richard harder, hearing him beg.

Taron is at once lax and alive under him. Richard kisses along his jaw and he tosses his head to the side, twists to present it to him. Bites at his collarbone and Taron arches into it.

He shoves down and feels all of Taron’s limbs convulse once under him where he’s got him pinned. The absurdity hits him, grinding against each other like teens, and the arousal floods him, Taron strong and helpless under him, and he comes in his pants, sudden and unexpected, thrusting against him hard. It feels like a true release, presses his forehead into Taron's shoulder as he shakes with it.

Richard heaves a breath. Rolls his shoulders and his hips into him, still submerged in the feeling as it fizzes away. He’s aware suddenly of Taron frantically worming a hand in between them to get at himself, hips hiking against his. Richard grabs his wrist and tears it away and Taron’s hand flings out and hits the leg of a table near them. Taron hisses and retracts it and Richard apologizes with a deep thrust of his tongue against his, a deep meant kiss, and Taron doesn’t seem too bothered.

Richard rears up and grabs Taron's same wrist again and kisses over the knuckles that are shocked red, then takes two of his fingers and sucks against them. His hands migrate, moving to flick open Taron’s button, tugging down his zipper and shoving inside to bring his cock out. Taron’s fingers follow deep in his mouth, insistent. " _Richard_ ," Taron gasps, voice unsticking from his throat. "So good, you're so good—"

He wraps a tight hand around him as Taron arches and cries, then lets his fingers slip free to cram the head of his cock in his mouth. Taron sobs, shoves into him and it’s a matter of moments before he comes, floods across his tongue. Richard's eyes close with it, raking a hand up Taron’s chest as he sucks him clean.

He keeps his mouth on him, just suckling against his dick before hands grab him, Taron dragging him up and kissing him, nose smashed into him, his face still wet against his. Richard drowns in it, softening by degrees until he blinks his eyes open to Taron’s wide, quietly stunned face under him.

“Was that. Was that what you wanted.” Taron’s eyes are open and deep and still turned on, still floored.

Richard feeds him a few more kisses in quick succession. Whatever possessed him is trickling away, sloughing off like rainwater over pavement. He feels scoured. They’re here. They’re okay. The world hasn’t collapsed, no walls fallen down around them. No alchemical change from how they were before except for Taron’s scuffed hair and a mess in his pants.

He deflates. “Sorry. Sorry sorry sorry.”

"I don’t blame you,” Taron says gently. Richard buries his head against Taron, repeats it, _sorry_. Lets his eyes close, lets wetness spring to them as Taron holds him. “Not a moment. Just. Want you to be happy.”

“Doing great right now,” he mumbles, Taron’s shirt wet under him.

Taron lifts a hand, scrubs at his own face. “Well. Nowhere to go but up.”

Richard pauses. Mutters, “Off to a great start.” 

“Oh, I think so. Absolute ravaging, a great baseline.”

Richard’s face splits into a smile.

“Real, real solid foundation to build on, I think." Taron pets at his head. "Sky’s the limit now. What d’you wanna have a go at next, d—"

Richard crawls up from where he is and seals his mouth over Taron's, hands clamped to either side of his head like a vise. Taron kisses him, his mouth so soft and lovely. It feels like a benediction. Richard shifts awkwardly over him in his jeans. “Gross, sorry.” Pushes himself, wobbling, to stand over him, moans, “Shower.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. This works for me, actually,” Taron says loudly, limbs akimbo, lying obstinate and boneless on the floor. His dick is still out, his clothes shoved out of the way. “You sure know how to love ‘em and leave ‘em, Madden."

Richard laughs, strong and joyous. Taron starts to put himself to rights before Richard tugs him to his feet. “I don’t, actually,” Richard confesses, fussing with Taron’s shirt. 

Taron hasn’t let go of his hand. “All the better, then.”

**Author's Note:**

> features consensual but unsure/regretful/emotionally-uhhh-bad sex. potentially unhealthy resolution of emotional issues.
> 
> i wanted to take a spin with some Richard POV and some DRAMA mostly a v dramatic Richard, babe. of course the happy ending bug came and bit me again. ❤️


End file.
